they have turned you in to your own tune: a mean song at christmastime,
you wrap their present tightly on yourself: how nicely it hides the marks on your neck,
they praise you for your transformation: cries of the skeptic now perfect mimicry,
how lovely the bowtie, how nicely it hides.

custodian.

for everything else there is an apology.
i hold the mop in my hand, its sponge
has gone limp, it is always dirty.
why it is so hard to feel clean in this country.
my skin burns and falls into the place of a thief.
the floor is always flooded and i am the only one
who sees the water and hears it move. i do
fulfill the job of a custodian quite well, wear
and tear through the days to let them live in
relative purity, sanitized, but the bath is still 
unholy. i ask God to forgive me. He lets fall
the curtain blinds, i peel them back open, 
clip the leaves together. my eyes, refusing 
the rest, stand in the interrogation chair.
i cannot deny your accusations any longer.
i become dumb as the thing i have taken.
you will make me pay. that answer
which i would like from myself more
than you would like from me, turns on us,
we breathe it in, and it has been forgotten.
now i clean. i clean the flood you have
let collect. the patient absorption of a sponge.
i cannot fix the leaks from the water machine.
i wait until you are become clean for the night,
when you are asleep. i do it then because it is time.
i clean because it is all i can do. i have been given
this mop with which i do my work. 
to rewind the flood is a magician's task.

hit some wrong notes and the tip jar broke

a year of a serious loss
of self.

slow addiction.

the fan goes on
the clouds growing slow
and massive

i know i love him because
he cooks and remembers
to bring me a celery stalk

the carrot top follows
he strips me down i
bare the orange skin.